


A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 7

by TheNightComesDown



Series: A Gentlemen's Agreement [7]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Little bit of smut, Queen AU, Queen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 04:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18380840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: John comes home from Montreaux, but several distractions prevent you from discussing his trip.





	A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 7

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the other segments of this story (posted as separate works, sorry) before reading this one!

**PRIVATE AIRSTRIP, LONDON // JULY 1990 // SUNDAY**

Late on Sunday night, the boys’ flight arrived in London, bringing them back from their recording session in Montreaux. As was usual for them, their flight was private, just a small jet with room enough for the four of them and a small entourage. John had called you earlier that morning with instructions for where to bring the car, as the two of you had decided that you would pick him up. The security guard outside the private airstrip provided you with directions on where to park near the small hangar. 

Several other vehicles were idling outside the hangar, which looked to be private drivers. Freddie often travelled this way, you knew. Outside the hangar, Debbie loitered near the door, smoking a cigarette. You parked John’s Volvo and stepped out, walking to stand with Debbie. She looked both excited and relieved to see a familiar face; it appeared that she was the only other “band wife” who had come to pick up their partner. 

“How have things been without John?” Debbie inquired, dressed to the nines even at 10:00pm on a Sunday. “This must be the first time you’ve been apart.” She puffed delicately at her cigarette, leaving a bright ring of lipstick around the filter. The lamp positioned above the locked hangar door cast a warm, yellow glow over the two of you, providing a decent amount of light in the blue, post-sunset darkness. 

“Quiet, but bearable,” you replied with a shrug. “Having this silly cast has been a challenge, but otherwise, I’ve been alright. How about you?” 

“The kids have been raring for Rog to get home,” she admitted, fiddling with a stone in one of her long, dangling earrings. “Rog’s ex was away for the weekend, so the little ones stayed with me. We had a lot of fun, but at this age, they’ve got a lot of energy.” 

“I can believe it,” you nodded, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “I’m sure they had loads of fun with you, though. It was quite clear at dinner the other night that they adore you.” Debbie smiled appreciatively at your comment. She had called to check in on you during the time the boys had been in Montreaux, and had shared that she sometimes felt as if she wasn’t doing a good enough job as a step-parent to Rory and Felix. 

As the two of you continued to banter about the mundanes of the week, the roar of a small plane sounded overhead, followed by the screech of rubber on tarmac. It was a few minutes before the jet taxied slowly over towards the hanger, coming to a stop with the assistance of a parking guide with fluorescent batons. You and Debbie made your way out toward the plane, eager to see your boys. 

The door of the jet opened, swinging down to create a small staircase. Brian was the first to disembark, stooping low to avoid striking his head on the low doorway. He stretched his arms above his head, loosening up after having sat hunched in his seat for several hours. 

“Evening, ladies,” he greeted you both, looking past you in search of his own lady. “I see Anita is still curled up in bed at home.” He gestured towards the idling vehicles beside the hangar, indicating that one must be for him. 

“It’s getting late, Brian,” Debbie laughed, “but I’m sure she’s waited up for you.” Brian raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together in a line as if to say, “Not likely, but thanks for the thought.” 

“There she is, my beautiful girl,” a high, melodic voice called out from the door of the plane. Roger, dressed as fancily as his partner, descended the staircase, his sunglasses perched on his nose even after dark. Debbie stepped towards him and planted a kiss on his lips, transferring some of her red lipstick to his skin. 

Two of Queen’s roadies carried bags and instrument cases down from the plane, where they had been stowed in cabinets, beneath seats, or in a small baggage area beneath the plane. Musicians certainly didn’t travel light, you observed. 

John, his eyes tired, but sweet and smiling, was the next to step out the door. When he reached you, he gathered you in a tight embrace, pressing his face against your neck. You were certain he had a mouthful of your hair, but he didn’t seem to mind. 

“Hello, love,” you murmured, grasping handfuls of his t-shirt as you hugged him. John hummed against your throat, still not saying a word. From over his shoulder, you saw a roadie unfolding a wheelchair, which he parked beside the short staircase. John finally pulled away, gave you a quick kiss, and turned back towards the plane. He kept one arm wrapped around your waist, resting his hand firmly on your hip. 

The last to disembark the plane, a stout, muscular man descended the stairs, carrying Freddie in his arms. _That must be his husband,_ you realized. The singer looked haggard, exhausted to the point that he was clearly unable to walk. His husband deposited him gently into the wheelchair, readjusting a blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Thank you, Jim, darling,” Freddie said softly. He reached up and caressed his husband’s face tenderly, a tired smile pasted on his face. “Let’s be off, then, shall we?” Jim nodded, stepping behind the wheelchair to push it towards the awaiting car. 

“Have a good rest, Fred,” John wished him, patting his arm fondly as Jim pushed him along. 

“Oh, hold on a moment,” Freddie asked, looking up at Jim. “I want to meet this girl Deaky hasn’t been able to stop talking about.” You blushed but allowed John to guide you forward. Freddie smiled brightly up at you and John, gathering up all the energy he had to greet you. 

“Hello, Freddie,” you murmured, kneeling down to speak with him at his eye level. When you took his hands in yours, they cool to the touch. Cooing with displeasure, you tucked his blanket over his hands to warm them up. Freddie grinned appreciatively beneath his bushy moustache. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Freddie. John’s told me all sorts of wonderful things about you.” 

“He’s too sweet, our John-boy, isn’t he?” Freddie chirped, his eyes flickering up to where his friend stood behind you. “I can already see what he likes about you.” 

“It’s my arse, isn’t it,” you teased cheekily, eliciting a delighted guffaw from Freddie. His dark eyes twinkled in the glow of the overhead light. You felt in that moment that he knew you already, or that he could see into your heart. 

“He loves that you meet people right where they’re at,” he explained, raising his arm to cover a harsh, hacking cough. “I can see it in your eyes, my dear; you have a good heart. You’re just right for our John.” You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes; this was high praise, especially from someone who you knew loved John dearly. 

“Off to bed, now, darling,” you whispered, giving his hand a final squeeze through the blanket. “I’ll have John bring me by sometime soon, and we’ll have tea together.” 

“I would love that,” he smiled, delighted at the idea. “Make it soon, though. Jim’s starting to grow tired of me lounging around all day long in my housecoat.” Jim winked at you, and continued on towards the car. Brian, Roger and Debbie said their goodbyes as they passed; Freddie blew kisses in their direction, somehow summoning the strength to give this enthusiastic farewell. 

* * * * * 

When you made it back to John’s flat, he dropped his bag at the door and made straight for the sofa, where he collapsed, his body half on and half off the cushions. He let out a long, exhausted groan, as if this had been the longest week of his life. For all you knew, it might have been – he’d skirted around the actual details of the recording session when he called you every evening from his hotel room. 

“Love, why don’t you go crawl into bed?” you suggested, rubbing a hand against his back. “I’ve just put the kettle on, and I’ll be in with tea in a few minutes.” 

“Can’t move,” he mumbled into the pillow beneath his face. “Too tired.” 

“John…” 

With an annoyed huff, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He pouted his lower lip and looked up at you from beneath his brows. With his index finger, he beckoned you closer. You obliged, stepping forward. John pressed his face against your stomach and wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you tightly in place. 

“I missed you,” he said, pressing a kiss to your belly. “Stupid of me to go away.” You ran your fingers through his hair and stroked his cheek with your thumb. 

“Well, you’re home now,” you reminded him, “and we’re here together. I know you’re tired, so let’s go lie up in bed, and after our tea, we’ll shut our eyes.” 

“But I _missed_ you,” he repeated breathily, trailing kisses further down your abdomen. You raised an eyebrow at him, seeing where this was going. 

“Did you now?” you smirked, releasing a little gasp as he slid a hand up your legged and rubbed the warm area between your thighs through your thin linen trousers. 

“Missed you a lot,” he asserted, looking up to watch your expression as he undid the button at your waist and tugged, allowing your trousers to pool around your ankles. John’s mouth went to your sweet spot, and he teased you through your knickers. 

In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle, its intensity increasing as things heated up between you and John in the living room. Not willing to stand by and remain a passive party any longer, you looped a finger in the front of John’s shirt and drew him up to your face. 

“Let’s take this somewhere else,” you murmured against his mouth, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You allowed him to guide you into the kitchen, where he turned off the stove and set the kettle on the back element to cool. He lifted you onto the counter with ease, parting your legs so he could stand between them. 

“I’m not tired anymore, but I am feeling a bit hungry,” he told you, peppering kisses along your neck and chest. 

“I forgot to buy more groceries,” you replied, biting your lip. 

“That’s alright,” he shrugged, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. “I’ve got all I need right here.” You leaned your head back against the cupboard and gripped the edge of the counter as he dropped to his knees before you. 

* * * * * 

You awoke to sweet birdsong outside the window, which John had cracked open in the middle of the night to allow some fresh air into the bedroom. John was fast asleep on his stomach, his arms wrapped in a tight hug around his pillow. You reached over him to grab a cigarette and the ashtray from his bedside table, as well as the book of matches with his Montreaux hotel’s information printed on the package. Sitting up slowly to avoid jostling the sleeping man beside you, you placed the cigarette in your mouth and struck a match. 

Halfway through your cigarette, John breathed in deeply, as if having smelled the scent of tobacco in his dreams. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he let out a long groan. 

“Christ, I’m old,” he chuckled, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “My poor back feels as if I spent the entire day at the gym yesterday.” 

“You might as well have,” you teased, laying a hand on his bare back. “You certainly got quite a workout last night.” He turned his face towards you and reached for the cigarette in your hand. You passed it to him, and he took a quick drag. 

“Smoking’s not good for you, Y/N. You know that, don’t you?” he questioned, a cloud of smoke rising toward the ceiling as he exhaled. He returned your cigarette, which you tapped against the glass tray beside you to remove the ash that had built up on the burning end. 

“Constantly exhausting yourself physically and emotionally isn’t good for you either, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” you responded. 

“Touché.” 

When you finished your cigarette, you leaned over and kissed John’s temple before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and hopping down onto the hardwood. You padded quickly across the room towards the toilet, cursing yourself for overdoing it with the tea last night. Your bladder had been so full when you woke up that you were worried you wouldn’t have time to wait for John to stir beside you. The idea of waking him by getting out of bed bothered you, especially when he’d seemed so exhausted the night before. 

“Let’s go out for breakfast,” John called to you after you flushed the toilet. “I don’t want to cook, or wash dishes.” This sounded like a fantastic idea. 

“Same place we went for brunch the other day?” you suggested. “I liked it there; it was quiet, and nobody seemed to recognize you.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” John replied, kicking the blankets off. Before joining you at the toilet sink, he slipped on a fresh pair of boxers, the fabric of which was patterned with tiny music notes. 

“Don’t you look beautiful this morning,” he observed, resting his chin on your shoulder and peering into the mirror. You didn’t respond, as your mouth was filled with frothy toothpaste, but the mirror reflected your eyes, which twinkled with a genuine appreciation for his compliment. 

You turned the tap on and spat into the sink, splashing a bit of water to rinse it all out. John wrapped an arm around your waist, his skin warm against your bare abdomen. The hair on his arm tickled your stomach, and you giggled as he rubbed his unshaven chin against your shoulder. 

“We’re not going to make it to breakfast if this is how you’re going to be,” you warned him. He pressed a gentle kiss against your shoulder blade before releasing you from his grasp, and snatched up his own toothbrush from the cup on the counter. 

“Very well, then,” he said seriously, squeezing a bit of toothpaste onto the bristles. “I’m starved now, and only a full English is going to rectify that.” You shifted over to allow him access to the sink, and used the mirror to brush your hair and arrange it into a messy bun atop your head. 

“Suppose I’d better get dressed, then,” you decided, giving the waistband of John’s boxers a little tug. They snapped back against his skin, and you ducked out of his reach as he tried to swat at you for teasing him. Walking back into the bedroom, you unzipped the bag containing all your wordly belongings, which was resting against the wall on your side of the bed. 

“You’re going to have to unpack that thing one of these days,” John called to you from the sink, “seeing as that inspector doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere with his investigation.” 

“Maybe I just need to start looking for a new flat,” you answered, pulling a floor-length frock from your bag. The colour went well with your skin tone, you thought, and the way the fabric flowed would allow you to stay cool on what was already promising to be a warm day, based on the heat coming in through the bedroom window. 

“You’ll let me help you find one, right?” he said hopefully. “Something affordable, but nice, and close?” 

“It’ll need to be in Poplar, or at least within a close distance by bus,” you reminded him. “Work’s not a problem anymore, but I’m still set to take that teaching job at the primary school near my flat.” The sink ran for a bit, and John appeared at the door a moment later. 

“What d’you mean, work’s not going to be a problem?” he asked, confused. “They didn’t fire you after the whole incident with your manager.” 

_Shit_ , you thought, realizing you hadn’t yet told him about how you’d quit your job as a bartender while he was away. You’d intended on mentioning it sometime soon, but last night hadn’t seemed like the right time. 

“I um…I gave my notice on Thursday,” you told him, stepping into your dress. “I can’t work with my arm like this anyways, and I start my new job at the end of August, so…” 

“So now you have no other obligations, and will let me help you find a new flat,” John exclaimed, his face lighting up with excitement. “Brilliant, love.” He walked over to you and pulled you into a tight hug. “You don’t need to be there, anyways,” he said decidedly. “It wasn’t safe for you, and I’m certain the whole place will bring back difficult memories after…well, I’m just glad you came to that decision.” 

As he hugged you, he swayed his hips, moving you back and forth in a slow sort of dance. John kissed your forehead, getting a bit of water on your skin that he hadn’t wiped away after brushing his teeth. You leaned into him, enjoying the intimate connection you had in silence. 

“You know this whole thing…it’s not about the sex for me, right?” he asked timidly, breaking the silence. “I really do enjoy your company, and I like you as a person.” You glanced up at him from beneath hooded eyelids, meeting his green-grey eyes. 

“I like you as a person, too, John,” you smiled. “You’re sweet and gentle and caring.” Pretending to look around the room for anyone who might be listening, you leaned closer and whispered, “Plus, you’re a tiger in the sack and you like to take me out for fancy breakfasts.” John roared with laughter and drew you closer. 

“So it’s not about money or sex for you,” he jested, “but those things certainly don’t hurt. If only you’d let me spend some of my money on you, I think you’d find that I can do better than Eggs Benedict.” 

“Spend it on your children, you silly man,” you insisted, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sure they’ll be able to appreciate it much more than I can.” 

“I do spend it on my children,” he acknowledged, “but I want to spend it on you, too. Let this silly man take care of his silly girl.” He kissed the tip of your nose, and his eyes crinkled as he looked down at you. “At the very least, let me find you a flat that doesn’t have a bloodstain on the carpet.” 

Just as you were about to respond to his offer, the phone rang in the sitting room. John rolled his eyes in annoyance, giving you a quick squeeze before he stepped out of the room to answer it. 

“And who is this, now?” you heard him ask. After a long pause without any speaking, you went to the bedroom door to check on him. 

“Telemarketer?” you inquired, shaking your head. “Hate those stupid calls.” 

Y/N,” he spoke, his voice oddly shaky, “it’s for you.” He held the phone out towards you, and you slowly walked over to take the call. His expression was one you couldn’t quite place; was it confusion, or fear, or something else entirely. Whatever it was, you didn’t like the way he was looking at you. 

“Hello?” 

“Where the fuck have you been?” your brother’s voice slurred, sounding muffled through the receiver. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

* * * * * 

“Michael, is that you?” you whispered. 

“Who the hell else would it be?” he asked angrily. “And who’s bloody phone number is this? Your number wasn’t working, and somehow, Mum managed to hold onto this one.” 

A chill went up your spine; Michael had gone to see your mother? The care centre she lived at knew to call you if she ever had visitors, and yet, no messages had been left on John’s answering machine. You’d even gone to see her while John had been in Montreaux, and certainly, she hadn’t mentioned seeing Michael. 

“Michael, where have you been?” you demanded, raising your voice. “I’ve been worried fucking sick about you. I went out for an afternoon with a friend, and when I came home, my flat had been ripped apart, and there was a puddle of BLOOD on my carpet, Michael. How was I supposed to know you weren’t dead in a skip somewhere in Whitechapel?” 

Your brother was silent, clearly unsure as to how best to respond to your questioning. John settled a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it firmly to signal that he was by your side if you needed anything. You glanced up, unable to even smile or give him a sign that things were alright; they weren’t. 

“I’m fine, Y/N, Christ,” your brother finally mumbled; at least he seemed to have some kind of grasp on the fact that you were incredibly angry. “Sorry about your flat, I didn’t mean for it to get trashed like that. Malcolm and I got into a bit of a row—” 

“You invited MALCOLM to my fucking flat, Michael?” you screeched with disbelief. “I can’t even believe you’ve seen him. Michael, he could literally kill you. He could kill _me_. How could you be so stupid?” Your heartbeat quickened, and you felt your hands tremble with fear at your brother’s revelation. Leaving rehab was one thing; he’d done it before, and it hadn’t ended well for him. But meeting up with the man he’d screwed over, probably to deal drugs, and bringing him into your home? This was beyond self-destructive. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I said I was sorry,” he retorted, stumbling over his words. “And come off it, Malcolm’s fine. He’s not even mad about the whole thing that happened before I went in. Told me ‘imself.” You pressed a hand to your forehead, incredulous about this entire story. There was no way to smell alcohol through the phone, but you’d bet anything that your brother was beyond legless, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Clearly, Michael was off his rocker. 

“Just tell me where you are so I can help you,” you requested, bringing your tone down as close to calm as you could manage. 

“Ha, funny joke,” he scoffed. “You’re going to snitch on me to the coppers if I tell you anything. I know you, Y/N.” 

“I just need you to make sure you’re safe, Mike,” you pleaded. “Please. I’m your sister, and I want to help you. Where are you staying?” 

In the background, you heard a somewhat familiar female voice chattering away, their accent reminiscent of the dockland workers you’d grown up around. When you’d gone to college, you had done your absolute best to erase any and all traces of Cockney in your speech. That did not, however, erase the unique markers of the dialect from your mind. You’d bet £50 that the woman in the room with your brother was an East Ender. In fact, the woman’s voice sounded suspiciously like your brother’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. 

“Fine,” he said sourly. “’M at Jenny’s. But don’t come here, okay? There are some people here that…you don’t want to know that. Just don’t come here if you know what’s good for you.” 

“If you didn’t want my help, then why did you call?” you asked weakly. This conversation was exhausting you, and you’d only been talking for a couple of minutes. 

“Mum said you were worried about me,” he admitted sheepishly, as if he truly cared how you were handling this whole mess. Maybe he did care; if he did, however, he was doing a shite job of showing it. “I told her I’d let you know that I’m fine.” 

“That was a lot of blood in my carpet, Mike,” you reminded him. “Are you hurt?” 

“It was just a tiff,” he said nonchalantly, brushing your question off. “I’ve got a black eye, but other’n that, I’ve never been better.” He had regained control of his speech for the most part, and seemed to be slurring his words less. Maybe he was telling the truth, and he really was just laying low at Jenny’s. 

“I’ve got to go now,” he said suddenly, his voice becoming quieter as he held the receiver away from his mouth. “We’ve got some friends coming to visit. I’ll call you in a few days, let you know that I’m safe.” 

“Call your parole officer, Michael,” you advised warily. “Judy can help you, get things sorted with the police as well as is possible.” 

“You know I’m not going to do that, sis,” your brother chuckled, his laugh hollow. “I can’t sit around in Judy’s office all day, waiting for her to arrange some shit halfway house or minimum wage job for me.” 

“Michael, you’re a felon!” you cried. “What else are you supposed to do? You’ve proven over and over again that you can’t be trusted to make those choices for yourself. I’ll give you a few days to get things sorted, but I need you to hike up your trousers and deal with this like a man.” 

The line went dead before you could say anything else. You were so angry that you could have thrown John’s phone against the floor, but out of respect for his property, you didn’t. Setting the phone back into its cradle, you let out a long sigh. 

“Come here, love,” John insisted, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and steering you towards the sofa. “We can just sit for a while, until you’re ready to talk, or scream, or what have you.” 

“No, no,” you protested, digging your heels into the floor. “I’m not letting my brother spoil things for me any longer. If he’s going to make terrible decisions, the consequences will be his, not mine.” 

“So what, you just want to go out to breakfast and pretend this hasn’t just happened?” he questioned, confused. “I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed or anything. What if you feel the need to have a good cry in a few minutes? Are you okay to do that in the middle of a restaurant?” He was only trying to support you, you knew, but nonetheless, it frustrated you to pieces. 

“What I need from you right now, John,” you articulated, “is for you to treat me like my family isn’t a mess. Walk down the street to breakfast with me. Tell me terrible jokes, or kiss me in the aisle of the supermarket. Help me live a normal life.” John laid a hand against your cheek and smiled ruefully. 

“I’m not sure that I’m the right man, if what you want is a normal life,” he murmured, running his thumb across your cheek to wipe away a stray tear. “But I can try my best to make your life happy, and full of love.” 

“That, I can live with,” you hummed, tucking yourself into his arms. He kissed the top of your head and held you close, not pulling away until you stepped back. “Let’s go for breakfast now, shall we?” you said brightly. “I recall hearing something about how you’ll surely die without a full English, and we certainly can’t have that. Freddie would kill me.” 

* * * * * 

John stayed true to his word; he made normal conversation as you both shovelled down eggs and sausage, beans on toast, and plenty of potatoes. Later that day, the two of you went for a drive in the country with the windows rolled down and the radio turned up. He pulled the car over beside a fence, which you climbed over, and ran around barefoot in a grassy field. When John was too tired to chase after you, he pretended to pass out on the ground, and you took a seat beside him on the ground. 

"Is it legal for us to be here, John?" you asked, carefully tucking a wildflower behind his ear. "Doesn't this field belong to some farmer or something?" 

"Very likely, yes," he nodded, shrugging as if he hadn't a care in the world. "I'm sure he won't mind. We aren't bothering his sheep or anything, just having a roll in the hay." 

"Umm, I don't think that means what you think it does," you giggled, looking down at him quizzically. "You aren't _that_ old, John." 

"I know exactly what it means," he said slyly, reaching up to grab your face. He pulled you down toward him and planted a silly, wet kiss on your mouth. 

"Hey now," you chastised, maintaining your grin the entire time, "I'm not going to sit in some small county gaol tonight because my silly boyfriend decided he wanted a shag in some dairy farmer's field." 

"Is that what I am, then?" he inquired, waggling his eyebrows. "Your _boyfriend_?" 

"Oh, I didn't mean--we haven't really discussed that, I know, but..." 

"I'm teasing," he laughed. "I just think it sounds a little funny." 

"Funny how?" 

"I'm nearly 40 years old, love," he reminded you. "Not much of a boy anymore, am I?" 

"John Deacon, you just chased me around a field, screeching that when you caught me, you'd tickle me to death," you reminded him. "You can call yourself a man all you want, but at heart, you're still the little boy who likes to chase little girls around at school, threatening them with cooties." 

"Fine, I'll be your boyfriend," he scowled. "But only if you'll come and lie down beside me." You obliged, snuggling up to him and throwing an arm across his chest. He tucked his hands beneath his head, and you used his bicep as a makeshift pillow. 

The sky above you was bright blue, and freckled with puffy white marshmallow clouds. John started a game of pointing out shapes he could see, and making up a silly little ditty about each. When those clouds had rolled past and only curled wisps remained, you sat up and plucked fat blades of grass from the ground beside you, attempting to make whistles with them. You pressing them between your thumbs and blew through the narrow space that remained to make the sound. You succeeded in creating a high-pitched buzz with vibrato, while John only managed a sorry spluttering noise. 

"I play the bass, not the trumpet," he complained, falling back against the grass in mock defeat. "If Freddie hears you doing that, I reckon he'll replace me with you for sure." 

"I highly doubt that." 

"So do I, but it was a rather novel idea, wasn't it?" he teased, pulling you against him. For another hour or so, you laid on your sides, chatting nose to nose about whatever came to your mind: music, football, politics, you name it. One topic, however, was off-limits. 

"I can't tell you about Montreaux, yet," John sighed when you asked after his trip. "I thought I'd be able to, but I...I feel rather choked up whenever I try to say anything." 

"Then we'll wait," you promised. "I'll be here for you whenever you're ready, John." He looked surprised, as if he'd expected you to be angry or disappointed by his inability to share that part of himself quite yet. 

"Freddie was right, you know," he told you. 

"About what?" 

"That I love how you meet people where they're at," he replied, taking a moment to decide how to explain it to you. "When Freddie came down from the plane, you knelt down beside him to chat, instead of staring down at him. You brought yourself to his level, so he would feel like a normal person. Or with Roger's kids - you weren't afraid to dress up with them, or make silly voices. You made them feel special, and gave them the attention they are often so eager for, since Roger and Debbie are both away so often. 

"Doesn't everyone do that?" you wondered, furrowing your brows in confusion. 

"No," John smiled. "But you do, and I love you for it." As soon as the words had left his mouth, his eyes went wide, and his cheeks flushed red. He'd met you only a week ago, and he'd just told you he loved you, whether it was an accident or not. 

"I don't think I ever expected to feel the way I do about you, John," you admitted, pressing your fingertips to his blushing cheeks. "When I agreed to spend time with you, I didn't know it would turn into this. Really, I never expected to feel this way about anyone." 

"And how _do_ you feel?" he asked, holding his breath as he awaited your response. The wind blowing over the field ruffled his hair out of place, so you tucked a silver curl back behind his ear with a gentle touch. 

"I feel like I'm falling in love," you said simply, taking his hand in yours. "Maybe not in the way most people do. We certainly met under interesting circumstances. But I have no doubt that for every moment I'm with you, I'll never be lacking for love.”


End file.
